


Valentino Just for You

by yolkinthejump



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Cock Warming, Consensual Somnophilia, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Praise Kink, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), aziraphale likes to talk, crowley is overwhelmed, more Feelings than anything really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 17:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19408348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolkinthejump/pseuds/yolkinthejump
Summary: Crowley bids Aziraphale to be selfish; to indulge in his own wants.What Aziraphale wants is to take care of Crowley.





	Valentino Just for You

Crowley wakes to rocking.

It is a gentle, pleasant thing. Only slight. His mind is foggy, his limbs are soft, the world is muted and dark and _safe_. Vaguely he is aware that he is naked, and curled on his side. He feels—complete. Whole. Something usually pulled tight in him is loosened, for the moment, and set free. Awareness comes to him slow, but when it does a smile spreads sloppy across his face: he is surrounded by softness, the barely-there push at his back and the ache in his thighs a comfort, the swell of Aziraphale inside of him steady, grounding.

They are both of them unclothed, covers cast aside. Right now Aziraphale is all the warmth Crowley needs. They are fit together as one being; two halves of one soul, one star.

Aziraphale has a hand, palm open, against the vulnerable indent of Crowley’s abdomen. The heat of him is exquisite. He uses his hand and the undulation of his hips to guide Crowley, ebbing and flowing like the waves just beyond the sanctuary of their cottage.

Waves of a sort roll over Crowley as he climbs to consciousness, dull pangs of pleasure in the core of him. He blinks, slowly, stares out into their room bathed in darkness still, and does his best to ignore them; he wants this night just as it is. He wants himself soft. He wants to flow with Aziraphale, to wallow, to give himself over to the slow pull of him, open and lazy with it. He lets a bit of the serpent rest in his limbs. He’s so pliable in the haze of sleep, exactly as he sought to be—

*

_“Take your pleass-sss—pleassure in me, angel; I want to wake aaching, well usssed, I want to feel, want to know, your desire is paramount, your fulfillment is yoursss and yours’lone, and—and res-sst in me, after, don’t leave me, angel, angel, want you to be s-selfish with me—”_

_He’d come, untouched. Aziraphale had stilled, and with the gentlest “oh, my dear, anything, anything for you,” he’d thrust just so, perfect as everything, hands held firm to Crowley’s hips as they shook together, a quirk upon his lips and a sparkle in his eyes and gazing up with all the love for all of Creation, only for him, and Crowley had_ sobbed.

*

Now, just as designed, just as Crowley desired, Aziraphale thrusts once, twice more, and spills inside of him with a soft exhale. On instinct Crowley’s spine bends a shade of unnatural to accommodate, to catch all the hot, wet heat at the deepest part of him, and Aziraphale’s measured breathing cracks with wonder, a bitten back “Crowley, oh,” tumbling from him with a final pulse. Sparks bloom behind Crowley’s eyelids and he twists his knees in, bears back impossibly closer, savoring every last drop.

There’s a shift, an answering cant of plush hips, and Aziraphale’s short, expertly polished nails dig shallowly into Crowley’s skin as he comes down. He does not move to touch him further. Good. Love burns, coils tight in Crowley’s chest, a hiss escaping him with a hitch of breath. Aziraphale will not offer him a release of his own. This is the play: Aziraphale has taken him purely for himself. Without a care to Crowley’s pleasure. From the slickness of where they’re joined it’s clear that this isn’t the first time of the night and oh, he’s going to be so brilliantly sore in the morning. His tongue flicks out to taste the air, to wet his lips with the scent of the deed and a shiver travels down the curve of his spine at the decadence of Aziraphale’s excess. He revels in it.

Crowley loves nothing greater than facilitating Aziraphale’s yield to pleasure, save simply Aziraphale himself.

Release slides to further wet his thighs as Aziraphale begins to slip free, but Crowley flutters and clenches around him, unwilling to see them parted—broken sounds fall from his lips, and “angel, stay, _no_ ,” he babbles, near incoherent, face hot at the whine caught in his throat, blaming his loose state, the weight of sleep heavy in the dark. Freshly pulled from his slumber, and so easily shattered.

Aziraphale _tsks_ kindly, a gentle admonishment, and the hand to Crowley’s middle realigns him with care. Something about the casual strength, the confidence of motion, keeps Crowley still. He makes himself fluid, body free and relaxed, and allows himself to be moved; Crowley feels vaguely Aziraphale holding him open, feels him catch on tender skin and press back inside, soft.

A stuttering of sibilants falls from Crowley’s tongue, grown slightly forked.

There is a touch of lips, a circle of wet as Aziraphale kisses his shoulder, clumsy with it. “I’m here, lovely, oh-only parted for a moment, see? I’m here.”

Oh, but the _weight_ of him. The thick and perfect searing heat. Crowley bows his face to the cool sheets, and fights to keep himself together. He narrows his focus to the delicate grunt of Aziraphale as he settles. The musty, sweet smell of him, surrounding Crowley: his books, his cakes, his perfume of greenery, the ocean, home. There is nothing of this moment but Aziraphale. The scent and the slide of sweat and the warmth and the weight and the mess and the delicious sharp twinge of pain to pleasure. Sweeter than Hellfire.

After a moment, the sensation of Aziraphale filling him from within starts, the dragging stretch of the flames spreading to all of his corners. The throbbing pulse shouts out all else, and Crowley’s body thrums with it, tiny twitching thrusts down to his toes, beating to the time of their hearts. They’re connected, and the universe is aligned again. Crowley is for Aziraphale to have, to take his comfort in. This is Crowley’s sole task. Aziraphale trusts him with this.

He whimpers. He can’t help himself. It aches. It’s perfect.

“Shh, hush, dearheart,” Aziraphale breathes. “My, you’re doing so well. This is _divine_ —” His hand catches against Crowley’s waist hot like a brand and his hips give a short stutter. Blasphemer. “Oh, how you hold me, the warmth of Heaven envies you, what a wonder you are, how good you are for me.”

Hazy as he is, Crowley feels his prick flicker at the praise. Aziraphale’s words wash over him like the smoothest sin. He’s so easy, curse him—

But Aziraphale, _bless_ him, doesn’t pay it any mind. He keeps his hips still and moves to spread a palm wide across the cradle of Crowley’s ribs, raising his free hand to pet his damp hair away from his temple. His breath puffs hot at Crowley’s ear. “Now, now, it’s early yet. You need your rest, don’t you? You indulgent creature.”

Crowley groans, faint.

“I think I’ll have a rest as well.”

“Yes _s_.” The reptilian brain of him basks. Just like this. Stay still and kept, just like this. Crowley tucks his head deeper into the cradle of his elbow, curls his free arm against his chest. He wills himself lax. He puts all else from his mind but the pleasure of Aziraphale resting thick within him. He wants to _hold_ him. He wants to be good for him.

“Rapturous,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley breathes his name in a low hiss. Aziraphale gives a twinkling laugh and kisses his neck. He shifts, settling in. Crowley feels it in every inch of him. It pulls at his chest. “I rather could get used to this, you know,” Aziraphale adds. “Such _ideas_ you come up with, my dear.”

“S’snug.” The word comes out muffled by fatigue, by the emotion caught in his throat.

Another laugh. A yawn puffed out against his heated skin. “Quite.”

“Of-of course, if you were to er, rise, before I do… you are ss—sstill welcome to, ah.” Crowley fumbles. Licks his lips. “Partake.” _You can’t be done with me yet_ Crowley does not beg, but it’s close.

The words Aziraphale chooses are careful. He’s playing their game, learning as he goes. “Perhaps after some time I’ll wake, yes,” he muses. Only when Crowley hisses at him, goading, does he continue: “You’ll be dozing, deep into one of your little kips… and with my own desire so strong, why, I doubt I’ll be able to resist such a treat.”

Crowley’s hips give a serpentine roll.

“You tempter. You beauty. All laid out just for me, oh, you—you beg to be filled, really. One could hardly blame me, mm?”

“Angel—”

“I won’t even think of waking you.”

Lord—God, Satan, Whoever the _fuck_. “You don’t care? You’ll just take what you want? For yourssself?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says lightly. His voice is full of delight. The sweetest torture. “This is solely about my pleasure, isn’t it? You have appointed yourself the instrument, and I mean to make use of you.”

A noise chokes out of a Crowley like a drowned man pulled to salvation. He bends in on himself. Aziraphale’s only movement is bending to follow, hooking a foot over his ankle, curving an arm around Crowley as if _he’s_ the snake. It’s a fair thought, it being natural that they blend into one another. Crowley is glad to be captured. 

“It is, after all,” Aziraphale continues. He rubs a thumb absently over Crowley’s collarbone, the hollow of his throat. “Mm, by your own exhortation, well—it is all about me. Isn’t that right?” A winking irony creeps into the question. His breathing sits just on the edge of tight. He pulls out mere centimeters, only enough to drag another sharp cry from Crowley’s throat, before pressing back in and grinding, slow. “Don't you think?”

It is only Aziraphale’s grip that keeps Crowley from thrusting, keeps him from angling to press himself fully to the bed to find friction. Crowley’s in no state of mind to curse his arousal away, and his blood spikes in alarm.

“It is, it is it iss it is _sss_.” He’s reminding himself as much as answering Aziraphale. He shakes on each sibilant.

Aziraphale hums, long and low. Crowley knows that sound, knows his hooded eyes and soft mouth. A hand rubs circles at his abdomen, soothing, and Crowley _feels_ Aziraphale expand even further inside of him and it’s so blindingly, beautifully tight, he squirms, throbs with it and cries out in a hitching, keening moan, the itching under his skin sparking. He’s held so open, stuffed so completely. He cannot bear to open his eyes. He can’t speak.

A wanton angel is a Heaven of a thing.

“I— _Crowley_ , it’s as if we were made to fit together like this.” The hand in Crowley’s hair clenches, once, a tiny loss of control that sends Crowley spiraling before Aziraphale goes back to kneading, fingers deep, languorous. “The feel of you. My radiant, resplendent—oh, my darling. My star. _Oh_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs hotly. A soft light begins to creep into the room, brought to bloom by Aziraphale’s words, the very depth of feeling too immense, too empyrean, to be contained. The weight of it, of the tenderness, stings like a prayer and suddenly it’s too much—the soft cushion of his belly at Crowley’s back, the hard span of his cock, the cradle of his arm, the warmth of his hand; Crowley is surrounded, it’s all a tumble, a tangle of pure Love grabbing at him, _tugging_ —

“ _Ah_ -Azs _ss_ —a-angel—I don’t—” _Stop stop stop_.

Quick as anything, Aziraphale switches tracks, gathers Crowley in both arms, wrapping him up. The light fades. Crowley clutches at him, and Aziraphale bends his face to Crowley’s neck. His breath whispers cool against the overheated skin. “Shh, sh, oh, Crowley, my Crowley, my dear boy,” he says, with practiced calm. “None of that, now.”

Crowley’s face is wet.

“Is it too much?” Aziraphale pauses.

“What you do to me angel, I—” A full body shudder almost has Crowley biting his own tongue. “Not ss’posed to be ‘bout me.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“ _N_ not the most s _sss_ sselfish, that.”

“Mmh. I’m having you, aren’t I? And I will _continue_ to have you, until I am sated.” A smile curves against his skin. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s eyelashes flutter softly as he breathes him in. “I promise you I am doing just as I please. Don’t you worry.”

“It’s perfect, you’re perfec _ss_ t—it is, it—it-it is s _ssss_ ’too much, don’t leave.”

“Never. As I said.”

One small nod is all Crowley can manage, just now. He feels cracked open. Aziraphale sets to mending him.

Aziraphale strokes fingers along Crowley’s chest; the drag of nails tease, his soft hand a point of focus. The movement is light, meant to blur Crowley’s edges back. “What _you_ do to me, oh, my dear, you truly are delightsome,” Aziraphale says. Sudden, like he can’t help himself. He does so like to talk. And then, at Crowley’s squirm: “Shh, hush, shh, I know, I know. I am simply stating the facts as they come to me. You’re perfectly alright. I’ve got you.”

It takes a few long seconds for Aziraphale to calm him. He brings Crowley down softly.

(One of the benefits of retirement is the lack of paperwork—no reports to file when you’re considered a pair of lost causes. Good thing for it, too, as _Struck a demon with impotence in order to carry on indulging my husband [see: Demon, The] and his kink_ would be a hard sell, miracle-wise.)

Aziraphale bends and kisses Crowley’s neck, his temple, his jaw, the damp skin of his cheek. Chaste, and distracting. It’s a clean, calming soothe.

“Thank you,” Crowley says, heavy with relief, as he feels his desire subside. It is what suits him—comfort is what he’s chasing. And the giving of it.

“Oh, my pleasure.”

“‘Zirapha-a _a_ le, you feel sssss…”

“Mm?”

He sucks in a wet breath, trembling as it hisses out. “S’good. S’s _ss_ o good. Love you.”

“And I love you, my boy.”

“ _Oooo, love_ ,” Crowley coos. Lover boy. His thoughts wander off into space. Drifting deep.

There are no sounds in the room but their quiet breathing together. Aziraphale does not move his hips, content for now to be warmed, still. Waiting. Crowley sinks against Aziraphale, the weight and heavy bulk of him. His favorite sunning rock. Set as a seal on his heart. They are touching from Aziraphale’s lips ghosting across his neck to their legs, tangled together. Aziraphale fills him in every way, surrounding him inside and out, padding the gaps, smoothing Crowley’s hard edges with his softness.

Aziraphale resumes petting him. Fingers through his hair slow and rhythmic.

Crowley allows himself to be pulled back under.

“That’s good, darling. Go back to sleep, you delight, you delicious thing; I’ll still be here in the morn. I’ll take care of you.”

And he is. And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading.
> 
> hang out with me on [tumblr](https://yolkinthejump.tumblr.com/)!


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